Escape from the Palace

by Santa Montefiore

  The trio of rabbits dived beneath a chair as a maid hurried past. There were feet everywhere, and the corgi looked more alert than ever. Indeed, Messalina’s ears were pricked and her nostrils were flaring.

  The three rabbits looked at one another. How were they going to get into the State Dining Room?

  Mavis and Flintskin poked their heads out of a gutter in the pavement on Birdcage Walk, a short skate from Buckingham Palace. They could see lots of people at the palace gates. The guards in their bright scarlet uniforms and furry bearskin hats stood at attention like statues, and shiny black limousines drove slowly into the grounds of the palace, carrying important guests. Mavis skated swiftly along the pavement, keeping to the edge, but she needn’t have worried: Everyone was much too busy watching the goings-on at the palace to notice the two rats.

  To reach the palace, Mavis and Flintskin would have to cross two busy roads and get through the police checkpoint that had been set up to inspect guests’ invitations before allowing them inside. But Mavis and Flintskin were not afraid of cars or people. They were not afraid of anything—except the all-powerful Papa Ratzi, and he had ordered them to crash the banquet. So crash it they would, and nothing would stop them.

  Crossing the first road was not difficult because there was very little traffic. The rats reached the green on the other side and tried to speed across it. But it wasn’t easy to skate on the long grass, and Flintskin fell over on his bottom with a yelp.

  “Idiot!” Mavis muttered crossly, though she was struggling too. A mole peeped out of the earth, spotted the rats, and swiftly dived back into the ground again, muttering through a mouthful of soil: “Humph! A lot of traffic on my lawn today!”

  At last, the Ratzis reached the second road. The palace was in their sights. They waited for the traffic lights to go red, then zoomed across it, disappearing among the hundreds of feet that stood in front of the gates. A poodle on a leash barked at them, but Mavis and Flintskin were skating too fast to be bothered by a pampered dog. They dodged shoes and boots, stilettos and sandals, and took refuge against a stone gatepost. They panted with exhaustion and their black hearts raced with the sheer wicked thrill of it all.

  “Now what?” Flintskin asked.

  “See that limousine?” said Mavis, pointing to one of the many cars moving toward the gates. “We’re going to hold on to the bumper, and it’ll take us inside. Come on!” she commanded.

  They skated beneath the car while the police officer was busy at the window, speaking to the chauffeur. Just as the car began to move on, they sped out and grabbed the back bumper. They were very exposed, but the police officer was now waving forward the next car, and the tourists were craning their necks to see who was inside. The only person to notice them was a small child who pointed and shouted, “Mummy! Rats on skates!”

  “What nonsense,” said his mother, who was busy taking photos on her phone. “Look at the celebrities!” she cried excitedly.

  Mavis and Flintskin held on tightly as the car drove through a large archway into a courtyard, beyond the prying eyes of the tourists.

  “Let go!” shouted Mavis, just before the limousine drew to a halt outside the grand entrance, where a red carpet had been laid down for the guests. The two rats lifted their paws off the bumper and skated with some difficulty (because gravel is very tough on small wheels) into the shadows beside the wall.

  “We made it,” Flintskin said happily, taking off his Ratzi-blades and packing them into his backpack.

  “Yes, we have,” said Mavis, doing the same.

  Flintskin looked around and smiled as he spied a drainpipe leading up the side of the building. Rats love nothing more than climbing drainpipes.

  “Ladies first,” he said with a smirk.

  “Idiot!” said Mavis.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  SHYLO WAS FED UP. HE was tired of being stuck high up in the Shard and not being able to warn the Royal Rabbits of the Ratzis’ invasion plan. No one was going to rescue him—he knew that all the Royal Rabbits would be busy trying to protect the Queen and the president. He had to escape using his own wits. He remembered what Belle de Paw had said to him after his nightmare: If you believe in yourself, there is no limit to what you can do.

  He had let them down by being captured, but he could make it up by escaping. He just had to believe he could do it. He might not be strong or swift, but he was clever. He stopped feeling sorry for himself and ran his eyes around the room in search of an idea.

  Shylo studied Thigby. He was the most unfit and sweatiest rat Shylo had ever seen. Also he was clearly very stupid. Surely Shylo could use both those two flaws to his advantage.

  “What are all these machines for?” he asked innocently.

  “Exercise,” Thigby replied.

  “This one looks very strange,” said Shylo, putting his paw on the black control panel of the running machine.

  “It’s called a treadmill. Humans run on it, but it can be dangerous for weak little rabbits.” Thigby grinned gleefully at the delicious thought. “You’ll discover how it works when the Doctor comes.”

  Shylo tried not to look frightened; the Doctor sounded very scary. “How does it work?”

  Thigby, who up until this point had never been given an important job in his life, was only too happy to show off his knowledge. “You stand on this track, and this button makes it move.” He pressed a green button. “You see, the ground is starting to move. Press the plus sign to go faster and the minus sign to go slower. And this red button here stops it very fast.” Thigby pressed it, and the belt stopped.

  Shylo’s mind lit up with an idea. It was a brilliant idea. If it worked, it just might be brilliant enough to get him out of there!

  “Hmmm,” said Shylo, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “How fast can you run on it?”

  “I might not look very fit, but looks can be deceptive,” said Thigby, wiping his brow. “I can run very fast actually. Faster than you could even imagine.”

  Shylo pretended not to understand. “But you can’t run on this, can you?” he asked.

  “Why not?” Thigby said huffily.

  “Because, like you said, you don’t look very fit.”

  “Well, I am!” Thigby retorted crossly.

  “Okay, if you say so,” said Shylo, giving a little chuckle, which annoyed Thigby because it was very obvious that the little rabbit didn’t believe him.

  “I’ll show you how fit I am!” he declared. He jumped onto the belt and pressed the green button. The belt started to move beneath him, and he began to walk.

  “Walking is easy. You have to run to prove that you’re really fit,” said Shylo.

  “I know that!” said Thigby. Panting, he pressed the plus button, and the belt moved faster.

  “That’s not very fast. I think that you were lying about being fitter than you look.”

  Thigby was really running quite fast now. He pressed the button again. The speed dial was climbing swiftly, and the belt was moving faster.

  And faster.

  And faster.

  “This . . . is . . . a bit . . . too . . . fast,” gasped Thigby, splashing sweat all around him.

  “Even for a fit rat like you?” said Shylo.

  “Yes, even for me.”

  “Would you like me to stop it?” Shylo asked.

  “Yeeeeeees!” cried Thigby.

  Shylo pressed the red button that Thigby had shown him, making the belt stop with a jolt. Thigby flew off the running machine and into the air. He was catapulted at such speed that he hit the glass wall, and before Shylo had even realized what had happened, Thigby had smashed through the glass, leaving a Ratzi-shaped hole. Shylo stared as the rat hovered in thin air, his stumpy legs still running, hundreds of yards over the City of London.

  The fat, flibbery rat fell the seventy-two floors of the Shard with a shrill scream that ended abruptly with a sharp splat.

  “Hmmm!” Shylo pondered aloud. “I guess Thigby was right. Gyms can be extremely da
ngerous, after all.”

  Not wasting another minute, Shylo made a dash for the door, hoping Thigby hadn’t locked it. He was in luck: Thigby had been so sure of his skills as a captor, he’d left the door unlocked.

  Scurrying out into the corridor, Shylo’s heart thumped against his rib cage. How was he going to find his way down? What if he encountered any Ratzis on the way?

  The Shard was a maze of shiny corridors and bright rooms containing desks, fancy chairs, laptops, and screens. There didn’t appear to be rats anywhere. Shylo presumed they’d all gone to the palace. He looked around frantically, but he couldn’t see an obvious way out. He knew they must have some sort of exit that took them to the ground, but he didn’t know where to find it.

  Shylo opened doors, peered around corners, even tried to open windows, but with no luck. At last, he found a panel labeled SHAFT 7, and he opened it and stepped into a dark tower. He hopped onto a large steel surface that seemed to be held up by thick cables. Suddenly, the floor fell away beneath him. It was then, in a rush of panic, that he realized what he was standing on was going down.

  Shylo held on to one of the cables as the thing rapidly descended. It went at such a speed, he thought he’d left his ears behind, but no, they were there, sticking straight up in the wind.

  It stopped once or twice and Shylo could see through a crack beneath him that, each time it did so, people got in. Eventually, it seemed to reach its final destination at the bottom because everybody got out. Shylo decided to do the same, and hopped off the roof and perched on a ledge, pressing himself against the wall, between more cables. Luckily, he was just small enough not to be squished as the “thing” refilled with people and then whooshed up again. Had he been a big buck like Zeno, he would surely have been crushed. He looked around and found he was at the bottom of the dark tower.

  Shylo was afraid. The big metal doors in the wall, which had allowed people into what he presumed was the building, were closed, and he didn’t know how he was going to get out. He did not want to be there when the “thing” descended again. Slowly, he clambered into a pit at the very bottom and hopped about, searching for an exit. He found a hole just big enough for him to squeeze through. It smelled of rat, although it was the stench of ordinary, communal-garden, public-drain, trash-bag rats, not Ratzis (there’s a big difference!), which was a relief.

  Shylo hopped gingerly along the tunnel, hoping that it would lead him out. It was silent except for his pounding heart. The earth was damp, but Shylo was used to living underground in the Warren so he didn’t mind. Then, to his joy, he saw a shaft of weak light. He quickened his pace. The ratty smell was masked now by the stench of rotting food. He made it to the beam of light and looked up to find that it came from a hole in what seemed to be the bottom of a garbage can. But he couldn’t see how to reach the light. He closed his eyes and wished that he was safely back on the farm with his mother. And, just as he was about to give up hope of ever finding his way out, something grabbed him and pulled him swiftly to the surface.

  His heart stopped.

  He was done for.

  It was all going to end here.

  His nose twitched. He smelled the once frightening, but now terribly reassuring, taint of fox mixed with butterscotch.

  “You didn’t think we were going to just leave you there, did you?” said ST-BT, dusting Shylo down and straightening his eye patch.

  “But how did you know I was going to be here?” Shylo asked, overwhelmed with relief.

  “I trusted you’d think of a way of escaping. Neat move with the running machine. Lethal. Ruthless. Sly like a fox. I was watching you with my super-strength, high-powered binoculars. You’d make a good fox if you didn’t have funny bunny ears and a tail like a feather duster.”

  “How are we getting back?” Shylo didn’t think he could do any more running.

  ST-BT glanced around warily and lowered his voice. “Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered, “but I’ll make a special exception and carry you on my back.” Shylo looked surprised. ST-BT lifted his nose and assumed a lofty expression. “I don’t normally give rabbits rides. It’s not my thing. But we need to get back, and fast. My mole spy near the palace has reported that two Ratzis have broken into the banquet. He spotted them hitching a ride on the back of a limousine. We must hurry.”

  “Isn’t it a long way?” Shylo asked.

  ST-BT grinned raffishly. “Not for a fox with my kinda SWISH.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  THE RATZIS HAD THE PALACE surrounded. They swarmed out of gutters in the pavement and holes in the park, and advanced upon the Weeping Willow where Zeno was waiting for them with his army of khaki-clad Thumpers.

  The sight of the Ratzis’ ambush was a terrifying one, even for Zeno, who was a very brave rabbit. They were whizzing about on Ratzi-blades, weaving in and out of one another, their narrow eyes glinting like razors as they assessed the enemy. With cameras slung over their shoulders, backpacks on their backs, and smartphones in their pockets to remind them of Papa’s instructions, the super-rats looked more dangerous than ever.

  This time they didn’t flee. This time there was no little rabbit to kidnap. This time they were intent on invading The Grand Burrow itself, which would give them access to Buckingham Palace, and the Royal Family, and the president inside it. This attack was bigger than anything they had ever done before, but Papa Ratzi had demanded it, and they’d do anything for their boss.

  The Ratzis stopped skating.

  A terrible silence descended on the park.

  Zeno, at the head of his Thumper army, put up his paw.

  The Ratzis arranged themselves in a tight formation. For a long moment, no one moved. Then with a mighty shriek they whizzed toward the Thumpers.

  Zeno dropped his paw. “Charge!”

  In Buckingham Palace, Clooney, Laser, and Hunter watched helplessly as Messalina sat guarding the double doors to the dining room. The other corgis of the Pack had now joined her: Agrippina, Helmsley, Lucrezia, Lady Macbeth, Livia, Imelda, Moll, and Jezebel. Slowly, the guests began to appear. The Royal Family mingled with the assembled guests— women in long dresses and diamonds and men in tailcoats and white bow ties. If Clooney had been a little bigger, he would have blended in beautifully in his tailcoat and scarlet bow tie.

  “What do we do?” Laser hissed.

  “We’re trapped,” said Hunter. The three rabbits looked about them. There were shoes everywhere. The guests were making their way into the dining room, and Messalina and the Pack did not look likely to move.

  “There’s nothing we can do,” said Laser. She glanced at Clooney hopefully. “Now would be a good time to come up with a plan,” she added.

  “You’re meant to be the brains, Laser,” said Clooney with a grin. “I’m just the beauty.”

  “I don’t see anything funny about this, Clooney,” Laser snapped. “Shylo has been kidnapped, Zeno and Lola are fighting the Ratzi army outside, and we can’t even get into the State Dining Room. We can’t let Nelson down. We can’t let the president down, and we can’t let the Queen down.” Laser and Clooney bowed their ears.

  “Gotta love ya,” muttered Hunter, amused by the quaint tradition of bowing ears. “This royal thing of yours is so charming!”

  “Okay,” said Clooney, after gazing at himself in his pocket mirror, which often inspired a useful thought. “I have a plan. But I warn you, it’s not a very good one.”

  “I don’t care,” said Laser. “It’s the only one we got.”

  “Have you read the story of the Gingerbread Man?” ST-BT asked Shylo as the little rabbit climbed onto his back.

  “Yes,” Shylo replied, for he had read many stories and that one was a family favorite.

  “What happens to the Gingerbread Man when he climbs onto the fox’s back?”

  “The fox asks him to climb higher so that the river they’re crossing won’t get him wet.”

  “And then what happens?” ST-BT asked smugly.

  “He encour
ages the Gingerbread Man to climb onto his nose, which he does.”

  “And then he eats him,” ST-BT said, finishing the story for him.

  Shylo’s ears drooped as he was suddenly gripped by fear.

  But ST-BT chuckled. “Which means you’re a very brave rabbit climbing onto the back of a fox.”

  Shylo’s ears straightened with relief. He remembered what Clooney had told him about the Rabbit Rules of Secret Craft. “I trust you,” he said, settling onto ST-BT’s shoulders, hoping that he was right.

  “Quite right, too,” ST-BT said, loping off, fleet of paw. “Hold on tight. It’s going to be a very swish ride.”

  Beneath the Weeping Willow in Green Park, the battle was raging. There were squeals and screeches, squawks and squeaks as the Ratzis dug their teeth into rabbit flesh and the rabbits plunged their claws into Ratzi flibber.

  Zeno, an impressive sight with his bulging muscles and rich black fur, knocked out Ratzi after Ratzi with powerful swipes of his fists. They dropped about him like bowling pins, landing on their fat bottoms with their skates above their heads. For a wonderful moment, it looked as if the rabbits were winning, but then the Ratzis used their most potent weapon. They lifted their tails, and the farts gusted out with moist abandon, the thunderous sound of them shaking the air, which was almost hazy with stinky green mist. They were so strong that Zeno complained that chemical warfare was against the rules.